Different
by Geka Em-Kat
Summary: OC adventure in Torak's world. Brother and sister have separate stories to tell, but are they really as similar as their appearances suggest? Differences stir fear; fears cause sorrow. Rated K to be safe. Halted until further notice.
1. Osprey

**Please feel free to R&R.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Chronicles of Ancient Darkness, it belongs respectfully to Michelle Paver.  
**

Chapter 1: Osprey

The sun paced across the south-east sky, the air still bleary from a mist the night before. Rain had already past in the early sun, but it returned after it wet the adjacent Forest. The morning air was musky, the tiny grains of water invisible, floating in the air.

Arlæ had seen the iridescent light bridge as he was waking a fire.

He'd just woken up himself, and the sun was sending fresh rays on the pine branches behind him. The Forest's boughs caught most of the incoming rays in the net of branches. Those that passed glided down to reach a shimmering nestle of white hair. His deep red iris reflected the verdant mountains and the gray cloud above it: beyond the mountain in front, an arc of all colours crossed the great Ice River. Arlæ got to his feet, and watched as he saw the arc slowly slither its way across the River. He gazed at the mysterious, unreachable arc.

The elders told tales to the children of the clans that only the World Spirit could touch its colours, and cross it over the Forest, to watch over his children.

Apart from natural marvels such as the rain arc, other strange things in this world were sometimes associated with a magical power called Magecraft. This power was not shared with every human, animal, or plant. It was very rarely given, and most Mages gained this power through studying ancient knowledge. Even then, it was extremely difficult to restrain and control.

Those who posses powers sometimes bear significant signs.

Arlæ's appearance was definitely not the usual. More uncanny than natural. Because of this, some excluded him, especially those of his age. And for the very reason, the Osprey clan Mage had brought him up differently. The Mage taught him Magecraft from an early age, saying his white hair and strange eyes were a sign of the Spirit.

Magecraft gripped him like a harpoon sometimes, but at other times, the unknown knack he possessed would scare him and he felt as if he never wanted anything to do with it. The fear of losing himself in it was like the dread of being trapped in the drowning, powerful jaws of a wild fire.

_Fire._ He bit his lip at the thought. Shards of memories crashed into his mind, he closed his eyelids. With a huge effort, Arlæ pushed the broken memories to the back of his head.

He quickly changed his mind about waking a fire, and poured ash on it. Mounting his pack and slinging his bow on his shoulders, he took one last glance at the rain arc before starting back.

- - -

He had to follow a river that descended from the North Ice River in order to return to camp. The Osprey clan lay atop a ledge, overlooking this river. Right now, Arlæ was on the wrong side of it, so he had to cross a fallen pine to get back on the North side of the river. He found this bridge not long ago, on one of his strays away from camp. But it wasn't exactly easy: the bark of the dead pine was covered in a layer of thick moss. The root of the pine struck out from the fast stream, and the cold water constantly splashed the pine. It was the only way across, and very slippery.

It was strong enough to hold his weight, but Arlæ guessed that the trunk wouldn't manage a full-grown man the whole way. And the Ice River's melt water isn't something you should fall into, even in summer.

Paying attention to the slippery covers of moss, he carefully crossed the pine, securing his weight on the remains of the outstretching branches.

Safely on the North side, he reached the end of the river, where it dropped sharply into a waterfall. Arlæ placed his boots carefully on the wet rocks and walked as close as he could to the edge. Down below was a dizzying drop and white sprays where the waterfall crashed onto bare rocks.

Quite suddenly, he realised how dark it was getting. The sun was pushing past the pines, lowering itself behind the World Spirit's mountain. The watchful eye began to narrow, reddening the sky with a sleepy haze.

Arlæ knew he should hurry.

He climbed down the trail he used all the time. His agile movements carried him down the rockface, quick as an Osprey making it's kill.

In the rich undergrowth on either side of the waterfall, Arlæ paused to breathe. The water gave life to the earth, and here, many deciduous trees arched over the river flowing away from the falls. Patches of red glowed through the thick green leaves. Re-shouldering his pack, Arlæ followed the river.

He soon came under the towering rocks of the camp ledge, which he usually climbed up. The warm day was becoming cooler as the sun sank, but he felt hot from the walk back. He felt best when he was climbing, the only time he knew he was in control. He forgot about Magecraft, about the gripping fire, the broken pieces of painful memories . . .

Arlæ halted with a jolt.

He had heard something, below the wind and above the gushing of the river. Voices echoed.

Arlæ tensed. One of them was horribly familiar.

He cautiously stepped forwards, making sure he stayed in the shadow of the ledge. Beyond the curve of the rock, he saw two figures: one crouched on a rock jutting out onto the river, and the other standing, shading his eyes to see beyond the glimmering flow.

Both tentatively close to where Arlæ stood.

'Where do you suppose he's gone?' Asked the crouched girl, and she craned her neck to face the boy. 'He can't have gone far, I saw him last night.'

The boy searched, glaring at the vast pine Forest like a bird of prey searching for its meal.

'Up the waterfall, of course. I don't know why the Mage lets _him_ go there,' the boy said bitterly.

The girl snorted, and looked away. 'Why don't you ask?'

'Would you?' He said, dropping his hand to his side and eyeing her.

'No,' the girl said quickly, averting her eyes.

From the shade, Arlæ silently watched them talk.

The boy was of his clan, named Tarnen, the girl a visitor whom he didn't know. He knew Tarnen as a prelude to unwanted happenings, obtrusive and spiteful to weaker or younger ones.

From up the rocks, Arlæ heard shouts of delight, and a thin smoke lining its way to the sky.

'Let's get back up, or we'll miss our share of the hunt.' The girl said, standing up. She waited a moment to let the boy lead the way, but seeing that he didn't move, she headed off alone.

Arlæ's belly stirred.

His usual climbing route to camp was right behind Tarnen. He didn't want to move in sight of him, so he had to wait until he left.

A breeze stroked his cheek, and the loud gushing river sent red gleaming sunlight in all directions. One ray of light hit Tarnen's face. He saw the angry brown eyes glittering silently, deep in thought.

Tarnen was a few summers older than Arlæ, and he'd been picking on him whenever he got his chance. Naturally, he stayed out of the boy's way. He didn't like hiding away, but he never felt comfortable in his clan. Maybe he would feel otherwise had he a proper family to look out for him.

_Astah . . . Arlæ sighed in his mind, suddenly reminded of the only family left to him._

At that moment, Tarnen turned heel and paced downstream, pulling him back up from his trail of thought.

He was heading for the calmer slope that led to camp, a small coiling path clan members used to get up and down the rocks. It was the only path that was close enough to camp that was not too difficult to travel up and down.

Although, Arlæ had found another, quicker way, to climb the steep ledge. The Osprey boy's talent in climbing was known to many clan members. This, Arlæ had tried to keep to himself, but after one incident at the waterfall with Tarnen, everyone in camp now knows that he is an adept climber.

Remembering the footholds and cracks while ascending, his speed gradually built up. Soon he was at the top, the edge of camp, and he looked over the last rock to scout for any clan members. But like the two at the riverbed had said, all were gathered to eat, and most were out of sight.

Arlæ heaved himself up, and trotted off to the campfire.

he was sure that no one had seen him.


	2. Chapter 2

The hunt had been well, and everyone got a fair share.

Like their clan creature, the Ospreys mainly survived on fish, but also woodland supplies which were kept in stock for winters. As fish were sometimes scarce, the clan could never rely too heavily on the river's fish stock during some summers. In those times, the Mage would perform certain Magecraft to ask the World Spirit to send them prey from the North, alongside offerings.

The younger ones were already fast asleep with full stomachs and happy dreams. The merry chatters of adults started to quieten as the sunlight grew dimmer.

Arlæ sat in front of his shelter and started to fletch his arrows in front of a small fire. He used feathers from the body of an old owl he found three suns ago. By his side he had some berries in a bowl that he chewed on.

Despite the rich meal, he kept on chewing. He hadn't had so much to eat for moons, and all that food in one sun made him dozy.

His fingers became heavy and his shoulder muscles ached.

He started to nod off.

He was asleep before he knew it.

---

His conscience comes by, and he is trying to focus on a blinking flare of light.

He wants to look more closely, but he has to fight the heavy weight on his eyelids to keep watching.

The light becomes larger and dims as his focus gradually fails.

The flashes fade, darkness.

He hears murmurs.

The voices are muffled, the string of words concealed by an invisible veil.

Despite this, Arlæ feels as if the voices are close, even beside him.

One voice whispers a secret into his consciousness, close enough to touch his mind.

He cannot move nor run, his head is heavy as a stone on the ground.

At the back of his eyelids, he sees red.

The dim flashes return, and the strangers are fading.

The crackle of a log brought him back with a shiver. He rubbed his eyes and got up to find that the fire had burnt low.

The camp was eerily quiet.

Arlæ put out the fire.

Only the trees sighed in the silence, with the occasional _hoot_ of an owl.

The arrow he'd been trying to work on lay by his knee. He picked it up and moved inside his shelter.

The last sunlight was disappearing behind clouds and mountains, and darkness was eating away at the light.

Arlæ sat down cross-legged, and thought about the dream. It was so short, but he remembered it vaguely.

His eyes lowered from the sinking sun to the half-worked arrow. As the light sank, Arlæ spotted something he should've seen before. He was too tired to feel it on his fingers, but now he saw it.

There was a mark on the slate of his arrow. He didn't recognize the mark, but it was an enticing craft that he hadn't seen before. A short wavy line continued from the tip of the arrowhead's slate, forming a circle half way. Incenter was a star, carved in a single line. The dusk light gave it a faint gleam, like a streak of blood.

That too faded as dark fell.


End file.
